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No modern comedian can match Allen's range or the quality of his output. His humor pieces for The New Yorker and other magazines, collected in three volumes, include some of the finest comic writing of the postwar period, and, as writer, director, and ( usually) star of his movies, Allen is the only comedian since Charlie Chaplin to entirely control his own product-more than thirty films, of which about a dozen have entered Americàs cinematic repertoire. But the most important of Allen's creations is his own persona: Woody the schlepper tri- umphant. Where the early American comics made a myth of hope, Woody makes a myth of retreat In him, the charm of agony replaces the charm of actIon. As he famously observed, "How can I find meaning in a finite universe given my shirt and waist size?" In the seventies and eighties, Allen, an entre- preneur of collapse, defined a winded America; now, as he slyly admits in " w . , BI k, " I riter s oc two new one-act pays (at the Atlantic Theatre Company), fa- tigue has become an issue for him, too. Revenge is the gasoline that fuels great comedy: (I t's no coincidence, for instance, that "Getting Even" is the title of Allen's first volume of humor.) In "Riverside Drive," the better play on the twin bill, the wild, infantile, murderous impulses of the unconscious are the sub- ject of forlorn meditation. Waiting on a park bench by the Hudson River, a self- absorbed screenwriter, Jim Swain (Paul Reiser), fidgets in that special Woody Allen ozone of fretful desire. He is ex- pecting his mistress, with whom he is planning to break up. A bearded home- less man, the aptly named Fred Savage (Skipp Sudduth), intrudes on Swain's solitude, unsettling him first by identify- ing him as a writer, then by claiming un- credited authorship of Swain's latest movie, the idea for which, he maintains, Swain stole from a conversation of Sav- age's, overheard in Central Park. In a familiar dramatic trope, Allen gives life to the division in his own na- ture-the Dionysian and Apollonian war inside him-and then he lets these urges duke it out onstage. Savage, who seems to hear voices beamed primarily from the Empire State Building, offers himself as Swain's collaborator. "You're good at construction and dialogue, but you lack inspiration," he tells Swain. "That's why you have to rely on me." He adds later, "You're good at nuts and bolts, but you need someone who can light a fire." As it turns out, arson has played a role in Savage's life story, along with mental illness, electroshock treatment, and sundry acts of violence When Swain's pert mistress, Barbara (Kate Blumberg), finally arrives, Swain flubs the confronta- tion, and Savage ends up spilling the beans for him. Barbara exits, threatening to speak to Swain's wife, and while Swain contemplates every craven maneuver of strategic apology; Savage sees only one solution: murder. Here, Allen is at his most trenchant: SWAlN: It's psychologically, morally, and intellectually wrong. It's madness. SAVAGE: It's a leap into the unthinkable. SWAlN: Let it remain unthought. This crisis of the heart is Allen's met- aphor for the crisis of the imagination. Swain distrusts and can't connect with his own unconscious desires. "You're too radical," he tells his new acquaintance. ""'\7 , bl " s oure too reasona e, avage coun- ters. "We have hit on the kernel of your problem, kid. You can't make the leap." The standoff allows Allen the opportu- nity for some tasty comic flimflammery. "She's a human being," Swain protests. SAVAGE: You say that like it's a good thing. SWAIN: Isn't it? SAVAGE: I don't know. Have you ever gone to a tenants' meeting in a co-op?